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RIMES BY 



BEN FIELD 




V 



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COPYRIGHTED. 1922 

By REUBEN B. OLDFIELD 

BATH. NEW YORK 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 









V 



\ 



CONTENTS 

Page 
Fear Not 5 

I Bide at Landor 7 

Road to Potter's Town 9 

Cricket's Song 10 

The Lost Land 11 

Autumn Leaves 12 

Adonak 13 

Tlie Lost Home 14 

Kaiiy Settler 15 

Winds on the Prairie 16 

Silver River 17 

The Day 18 

King Arrus 19 

'Mong the Hills of Canisteo 20 

The Fairy Snip 21 

The Hound Dog Upon the Hills 22 

Wild Flowers 23 

Passing of June 24 

Swingin' on the Gate 25 

When Danny Plays 26 

Smile Not Unheedingly 27 

May Flowers 28 

Mr. Swallow's Troubles 28 

Wilkes' Grove 29 

1 Remember Considerable 80 

Naughty March Wind 31 

Mosquitoes 32 

Poetry ^ 33 

Staples 34 

Old Bill Townley . 35 

Deacon Jones' Pig 36 

October 37 

Rattling the Ladies 38 

Early Ups 39 

Home at Last 40 

Rolling Stones 40 

Spring-time Blues 41 

Being Independent 42 

The City Child 43 

Jig£rer Johnson 44 

Chewing Yeast 45 

The Man in the White Cravat 46 

They Can't Have Mark Twain 47 

The Aviator 48 

The Prairie 49 

The Cigarette 50 

The Peanut 51 

Memorial Day 52 



©C1A693C25 



INTRODUCTION 



XL 



HE following rimes, 
Which, betwixt and betimes, 
Have been written by me, 
I know you'll agree — 
When you ma^er your ire. 
Should be thrown in the fire. 
But as thi^les remain 
In the fine^ of grain. 
As a thorn predisposes 
To mingle with roses. 
Like seeds in a berry, 
Or a pit in a cherry; 
So at this small book 
You may happen to look. 
And without circumspedion, 
Put it in your colledlion. 
With timid and bold ones, 
With new ones and old ones, 
With books that are bright, 
Or heavy or light. 
Mong bindings decorus 
And essays sonorous, 
'Tween legend and ditty, 
'Tween the trite and the witty. 
Let it lie for awhile. 
Put it there with a smile, 
Though with books you are ble^, 
You may not have the best, 
But with this one accur^, 
You may boa^ of the worst! 

November, 1922 BEN FIELD 



PRESS OF THE STEUBEN ADVOCATE 
BATH, NEW YORK 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 



FEAR NOT 



F 



EAR not to do ! Fear not to try ! 
Within thy hand the key doth lie 
That opens wide the portal gate 



To vast, unbounded realms of fate ! 

From sea to sea the tracks of steel" 
Direct the speeding, roaring, wheel; 
From coast to coast, the ribbons span, 
A giant task for puny man ! 

But men undaunted, faced the job, 
No coward's whine, nor craven's sob 
Escaped their lips ; but full of pluck, 
They met disaster's crushing luck! 

While "quitters" scoffed to see them try, 
They labored, with determined eye ! 
They bridged the rapids; crossed the flood, 
And built their railroad through the mud! 

They tunneled through the mountain's side, 
And blasted out the "Great Divide" 
Through summer's heat and winter's snow, 
They laid their cross-ties in a row ! 

And when the Indian warning blew, 
They grabbed a gun and fought the Sioux ! 
Clear grit, and ginger, had this band, 
That built the railroads overland ! 

* The construcaion of the Union Pacific railroad through an unhrolien wilderness, 
over the Rocliy Mountains, across the great western plains, and through the lands of 
the Sioux Indians, was an undertaJting which, in its day seemed impossihie. .Some 
five hundred men lost their lives in engagements with Indians, and many more suc- 
cumbed to di.sease and the lure of the gambling dens which followed the laying of the 
liiils. The eastern end of constixiction was done princiiially by Irishmen and the 
lalior employed on the western terminal consisted almost entirely of Chinamen. The 
Krealesl rivalry prevailed and did not cease until the final siiiUe was driven. This 
spike was of pure gold. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote: "It seems to me as if this 

railway were the one typical a<'hievement of the age in which we live," "If it be 

romance, if it be contrast, if it be heroism that we require, what was Troy to this?" 



RIMES B Y BEN EI ELD 



And when, at last the golden spike, 
Was driven home by "Chink" and "Mike' 
They well might rest and be content, 
They'd bound, with steel, a continent ! 

But what of you, who fear and doubt, 
When some small trouble seeks you out? 
Don't ever show the job your back. 
Until you've built your railroad track ! 

And when some doubter comes to you 
And leaves you sore disturbed and blue 
About the beans, that you have spilt 
Just ask him what trunk line he's built! 

Fear not to do ! Fear not to try ! 
Your only limit, is the sky ! 
To say you can't, is only bunk. 
Provided that you've got the spunk! 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 



I BIDE AT LANDOR- 



A 



T Landor, on the coast, I bide, 
And every morn I see the tide 
Come in and out. 



And frequently, I seem to see. 
The ebbing waters beckon me 



To come along. 



The wavelets call to me and say, 
"Come, go with us across the bay ! 
Come, follow on !" 

And, yet on Landor's coast, I bide, 
Where every morn the crawling tide 
Comes in and out. 

One day, upon the waters tossed, 

A toy ship, by some urchin lost, 

Drifted away. 

As by the current, swiftly drawn, 
A speck it grew, and then was gone 
Far out to sea. 

In dreams, that night, I saw the boat 
Upon some distant waters float 
Under the moon. 

A fairy crew possessed the craft 
And loud his orders fore and aft 
The captain called. 



• To "Bide at Landor" It is not necessary to live near the seaboard. There are 
many perfeetly good people who live inland and yet "Bide at Landor." Anyone who 
feels the inclination to travel or do something unusual, but la restrained by clrcum- 
staiicea may be said to "Bide at Landor." 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 



"Full spread each sail, 
Before the dawn ! 
Hold every canvas 
Tightly drawn! 

Upon that twinkling path of light 
Full fast we sail while yet 'tis night 
For we are bound for lands afar 
Upon yon sinking, fading star ! 
Speed! Speed Away! Far fling the spray! 
For swiftly comes the deathly day 
And we must beach on yonder star 
Just before the dawn!" 

And yet, on Landor's coast, I bide 
And never follow out the tide 
That calls to me. 

But in my dreams I sometimes float 
Adventurous in that fairy boat, 
Chasinsf the star. 



RIMES B V BEN FIELD 



THE ROAD TO POTTER'S TOWN 



n 



ROAD leads down to Potter's Town, 

A winding trail of dusty brown, 

A laughing highway trimmed in green 



It rambles down the hills between. 

Although they say the road is old 
I doubt the proof when I am told, 
For all the houses seem to stare 
In blank surprise to see it there. 

And in its dust we often meet 
With tiny tracks of bare-foot feet. 
If it were old, it seems to me 
Such little tracks would hardly be. 

Within its bushes all day long 
A merry bird sings out his song. 
Nearby his mate sits on her nest 
And neither seem a bit depressed. 

I doubt if any bird would sing 
Or build a nest there in the spring 
Unless he knew the road had youth, 
And his opinion must be truth. 

For even a decrepid toad 
Would much prefer a jaunty road 
To any worn-out aged trail 
With spirit gone and ardor frail. 

And so I say this jolly road 
By knoll and creek and gully bowed, 
With laughing tree tops over-hung, 
I know for certain, must be young. 



* It may be questioned whether this rime like many others iii this book is worth 
while. I think it is. and would almost guarantee satisfaction to anyone who will 
give It a little attention. 



10 RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 



THE CRICKET SINGS, GOOD-BYE* 



G"^ GOD bve! Good bye! 
The cricket sings, good-bye! 
] We two must part, the twilight fades, 

And cool the evening breezes blow ; 
The night birds call from out the sky. 
My heart is heavy when I say 
Good-bye! the cricket sings, good-bye! 

From out my sight your form will pass, 
My listening ear shall hear no more 
The stately music of your voice ; 
Yet recollections shall not die, 
And you will hear me say again 
Good-bye ! the cricket sings, good-bye ! 

The summer leaves too soon will fall. 
And bleak, the autumn branches bare 
Will viel the harvest moon so white; 
O, sav your soul shall lift a sigh. 
And long remember that I said 
Good-bye! the cricket sings, good-bye! 

And when upon a foreign shore 
You feel the lingering breath of night, 
And hear the lowly cricket call, 
While crickets softly sang their song, 
Your heart will fondly know that I, 
Bade you a last good-bye ! 



* Two friends wore seated on a beneh near a lilac hedge. The following morn- 
ing one of them was to depart to the Orient. The crickets were singing loudl.v from 
tlie hedge, nhen the other remarked that whenever the soioiirner should hear a erlcket 
sing he hoped that the sound would remind him of their last evening together. The 
incident was told me by the traveler, whose friend died during his absence. 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 11 



THE LOST LAND 



1"^ KNOW not where the land of childhood lies ; 
I only know this vale, where mortals journey 
J long: 

.And lost in shadows are the cloudless skies 
Of childhood's land of happiness and song. 

With careless eye, I wandered here, intent 
On time-worn trails, that led to lands forlorn ; 
Heavy my burdened soul, with discontent: 
Heavy my heart, with recollection torn. 

In childhood's land the wild birds whistle, free, 
And radiant flowers scent the perfumed air. 
No flowers bloom, nor song birds trill for me, 
In this dull vale of toil and sullen care. 

Forgotten are the paths that cross the heights, 
And lost forever are the marks that guide 
To childhood's land of genuine delights; 
In sorrow's vale, I ever must abide. 



* This rime was written immediately after hearing a middle-aged man lament 
his inability to converse with children or "meet them on their own ground." 



12 RIMES B V BEN FIELD 



AUTUMN LEAVES 



• 1 UTUMN leaves come sailing down, 
/* I Autumn leaves of red and brown, 
^ ^1 Carpeting the shady street 
MufEing the sound of feet. 

Autumn leaves of brown and red 
Canopy us overhead 
With a golden over-glow 
Make a fairy street below. 

Hills are painted in a night 
With pn artist's dream delight, 
Supernatural shades are seen 
Mingled with the evergreen. 

Crim.son, scarlet, every hue 
That the oldest masters knew 
While October's flashing days 
Fade to cold November grays. 

For the weary Earth is old. 
Fast comes on the deathly cold. 
Winds their shroud upon him spread, 
Autumn leaves of brown and red. 

Autumn leaves of red and brown 
Through the sunlight flutter down 
Weaving winds from overhead 
Plait a mantle for the dead. 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 13 



ADONAK 



I 



SING a song of the wayside wild, 
Of the distant wood, and the hidden lake, 
Of the pine tree's breath and the rock peak 
tower. 
Where the first bright bars of morning break. 

I sing a song of the wayside wild, 
Where the weird loon calls up the echo shrill, 
Where the red deer guards her trembling fawn. 
And the owlet screams with the whip-poor-will. 

Where the black stump marks the fire's path, 
And the alder's tip sways with the stream. 
Where the wild bee hunts for the scattered flowers, 
And the dancing butterflies gleam. 

O ! wealth may shine, like a bait that snares, 
And the lazy ease of the idle call, 
But the tightening strings of the wider world 
Draw hard on the heart in the palace hall. 

For riches weaken, and leisure slays. 

And the city sickens her children fast, 

So, to find their graves, when the day is done 

They all return to the earth at last. 



14 RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 



THE LOST HOME 



1—^ USED to live within a house 
Whose wide flung halls 
Were thick with velvet rugs, 
And ancient clocks ; 
A house ancestral, 
Whose dignity impressed them all. 
And yet, I never saw the place; 
For I was born upon 
The western plains, 
Within a shack ! 

A friend, there was, 

And he was staunch and true ! 

At times, I nearly 

Can recall his name; 

And in the features of the passer-by, 

I sometimes 

Glimpse his face; 

And, once upon a city street, 

I heard his voice. 

Adventuring, we went forth 
Through scenes heroic. 
But ever came we back 
To that old home, 
/V/hose ancient clocks 
Were ticking, on the wall; 
And all the long, still 
Winter's night 
We sat around the fireplace. 

I never can recall 

Just why I left, 

Nor if my comrade came 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 15 

Or stayed ; 

But somewhere, sometime, 

When my footsteps lead me back 

To that old home, 

I know I'll find him 

Standing, in the hall 

Among the velvet rugs ; 

A trifle older than he used to be 

And yet, the same old friend. 



THE EARLY SETTLER 



H 



E swung his iron axe, 
And turned the stubborn furrow straight; 
He built the school house, 
Where Youth grew great! 



His was the hand that gave 
To generations, yet to be ; 
He made a nation 
Where men walk free ! 

And when the bugle called 

He took his place among the brave. 

Honor the Settler, 

And revere his grave! 



16 RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 



THE WINDS ON THE PRAIRIE* 



w 



ILD blow the winds on the prairie, 
Wild blow the winds on the plains; 
And my heart it is restless and raging, 



My spirit is breaking its chains. 

My thoughts fly out there in the Westlands, 
Where the cotton-woods shake in the air; 
Where the prairie cocks boom in the springtime, 
And the wild coyote howls his despair. 

Where the summer arrives like a bridesmaid. 
Where the winter comes down like a shroud ; 
Where a blizzard is hid in each snowflake, 
A tornado concealed in each cloud. 

O, land of the desperate red man; 
Waving seas of coarse buffalo grass; 
Where the sky of the moon is of silver ; 
The sky of the sun, hissing brass. 

Wild deeds have been done on your borders. 
Brave blood clots your black, reeking sod; 
For man stood to man on the prairie; 
Each king, face to face with his God. 

Wild blow the winds on the prairie. 
Wild blow the winds on the plains ; 
And my heart it is restless and raging. 
My spirit is breaking its chains. 

• "The Winds on the Prairie" was written after hearing a home-sick young 
Westerner express a wish to "feel a prairie wind." As the writer was also prairie 
born, this poem is the result. Tlie cotton-wood trees the leaves of which, like those 
of our aspens, are always in motion, the booming sound of the prairie fowls, which 
may be heard at a great distance from their mating grounds, the ever present danger 
of blizzards in the winter, and of tornados in llie summer, the coarse grass which 
waves in the almost constant wind, the moon at night, or the sun during the day 
shining upon a land unbrol^en by any considerable elevation, will scarcely appeal to 
any except those reared in the West. 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 17 



SILVER RIVER 



/ 



ILVER river in the valley 

Where the wooded hills are green 
Softly spreads your water mirror 



Duplicating all the scene. 

Silver river in the valley 
Where the meadow daises blow 
All the trees that sway above you 
Wave their branches down below. 

All the floating cloudland castles 
With their background sky of blue 
Casting down their pleasant image 
Seem to drift along with you. 

Silver river, fair Conhocton, 
Indians named you, years ago, 
Silver in the moons of summer, 
Silent in the moons of snow. 

Silver when the autumn asters 
Nod above your purling spring 
Silver when the early thrushes 
Flutter on your banks and sing. 

Silver river, bright Conhocton, 
On forever will you flow 
Through the Valley of Reflection, 
From the lands of Long Ago. 



18 RIMES B V BEN FTELD 



THE DAY 

SUMMER— MORNING 

The stars grow dim. 

A purple cloud hangs dark 

Above the East. 

A wild bird plays his flute. 

All round and yellow comes the sun 

And shoots his lances full 

Upon the rose, 

Which, nodding, smiles. 

And waves 

Her diamond spangled leaves. 

SUMMER— NOON 

Along the road 

The dusty grass is dead, 

The corn leaves curl, 

And heat waves 

Shake the meadow knoll. 

The hot white stones 

Show where the stream has been. 

How still the willows seem! 

Across the sky 

An aged crow 

Flies, silently; 

And far below him, 

On the ground, 

A ghostly shadow flaps its wings. 



RIMES B V BEN FIELD 19 



SUMMER— EVENING 

A lonely star 
Above the yellow haze 
That glows between the 
Black trees on the hill. 



The smell of withered grass 

Beneath the dew. 

A breeze that comes and goes, 

A distant whip-poor-will, 

While black against the 

Yellow haze, 

A gray bat zig-zags 

In the dusk. 



KING ARRUS 



S-^n EARCHING a mountain chasm, deep, 
I found an urchin, seated on a rock, 
j With towseled hair and naked toes 
He seemed the demon of the place. 
His solemn visage bore the part; 
His steady eyes drilled deep into my soul. 
"What do you here?" at length, I asked, 
He answered, with a frown : 

"I am King Arrus! 

Vv^ithin these rocks I hide my men! 

And at my signal, an hundred arrows fill the air ! 

Beware, then, Stranger! or you die!" 

And then he smiled, 

A dimple danced upon his cheek. 

His merry laughter woke the echoes shrill; 

From off his granite throne 

He rolled upon the sand. 



20 RIMES B Y BEN FfELD 



'MONO THE HILLS OF CANISTEO 



;:p|HROUGH the hills of Canisteo 
I We were roaming in the twilight, 
•*• J And the sun of June was painting 
All the new-set leaves, a-quiver, 
Painting them with fairy brushes ; 
Painting them with dainty flushes: 
And the breeze that swept the waters 
Set them dancing in the river. 
Set the pines, and oaks, and maples 
All a dancing in the river. 

'Mong the hills of Canisteo 

We were roaming in the twilight, 

And the sun of June was painting 

Hill and valley, black and yellow ; 

Painting aspen, elm, and maple 

With their new-set leaves a-quiver; 

Painting them with light and shadow. 

And the fairy sun of evening 

Threw them all into the river. 

Threw the hills of Canisteo 

Tn the shallow little river : 

Took the maples, oaks and aspens, 

With their new-set leaves a-quiver ; 

And just threw them in the river. 

Took the hills of Canisteo: 

Took the maples, oaks, and aspens 

Took the hemlocks, every sliver, 

Took the mountains, and just threw them 

In the Canisteo river. 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 21 



THE FAIRY'S SNIP 



NE Friday morning in July, 
A fairy, measuring the sky. 
Discovered that to make it fit 
He'd have to trim a bit of it. 
He found the error none too soon, 
And hung the fragment on the moon. 

The piece was blue as indigo. 

With little stars as white as snow, 

Yet it so matched the other sky 

That no one saw it floating by ; 

And soon the fairy overlooked 

The piece that on the moon he'd hooked. 

Each day the crescent moon grew fatter : 
Said he, "I wonder what's the matter? 
Why don't that fairy get the snip 
He hung last Friday, on my tip? 
If I much rounder grow at all, 
I fear the pretty thing will fall!" 

Each day the moon much fuller felt, 
Each day he loosened up his belt ; 
And when at length, he had to cough, 
The little piece of sky fell off. 
For days and days it fluttered round 
But finally settled on the ground. 

On any Friday in July 

I'll point you out the little sky 

That from the dome above was clipped. 

By fairy scissors nicely nipped. 

The brightest thing from Nome to Nubia, 

That little lake of ours — Salubria! 



22 RIMES B V BEN FIELD 

THE HOUND DOG HOWLS UPON THE | 
HILLS 



T night, when things are still as death 
And nature seems to pause for breath, 
V\/hen not a cricket's chirp is heard 
i-xiiu not a peep from fowl or bird, 
It s then, to give us inward chills 
The hound dog howls upon the hills. 

We wonder why it is he strays 
And where he lingers during days, 
Vvhat game he chases through the brush 
When e'er he breaks the midnight hush 
To fright his prey with mur'drous trills, 
By bloody yelping on the hills ! 

Or if the timid rabbit's mate 

Is wondering why her Jack is late 

While Jack is racing for his life 

Through briers that scrape him like a knife, 

To dodge the brute whose roaring fills, 

I'he vale below and all the hills. 

Our open window, screened and tight 
Excluding ail, but air and light. 
Provides a telephone exchange. 
Connected with that hound dog's range, 
Through which he tells us all his ills, 
That hound dog, howling on the hills. 

And nights that should all restful be 

Are orgies made for you and me 

We help that hound dog track his game 

We follow on, though weak and lame 

Our soul, in spite of fetty pills, 

Is with that hound dog on the hills. 



RIMES B V BEN FIELD 23 

And like a cave-man, bent on blood, 
We race with him o'er rock and flood 
Through brier patch and tangled brakes 
O'er precipice and den of snakes, 
And in wild dreams our yelping thrills 
That hound dog, howling on the hills. 

What coat he wears upon his back, 
It may be yellow, brown or black. 
Or where we learned the song he sung 
Above his rolling dripping tongue 
We answer not, for murder thrills, 
We're with that hound dog on the hills. 



WILD FLOWERS 



OW the yellow primrose blossoms 
With the white-topped asters vie, 
And the boneset's plume is waving 



Close beside our friend, Joe Pye. 

Pink and purple, blue and crimson, 
Delicate with sheen of gold. 
Hiding in the tangled thicket, 
August flowers their buds unfold. 

Wild flowers blooming in the thicket. 
Only seen by Mister Bee, 
Golden Rod and Black-Eyed Susan, 
Hiding there from you and me. 



24 RIMES B V BEN FIELD 



THE PASSING OF JUNE 



T 



HE weary clock has ticked away 
The month we like the best, 
And old July will soon be here 
To make us shed our vest. 

Another June has slipped away 
With butter-cups and clover, 
And scent of roses on the lawn 
To lure the lonesome lover. 

Another June has passed us by 
Though birds sang to her sweetly, 
A vibrant symphony of sound 
That filled the bill completely. 

No flies to buzz around our heads 
Like buzzards in a flock, 
No "skeeters" with their bayonets 
To chase us 'round the block. 

The grass is green, and noble trees 
Their verdant plumage shake 
And everything is ready now 
For old July to bake. 

So farewell June ! Good month of joy 
Of pretty brides and dimples, 
Of mountain laurel, blooming high 
Around the mountain's temples. 

Of naked youngsters splashing gay 
Within the river's pool. 
Of bumble-bees and humming birds 
And "kids" let out from school. 

Oh, joyous, merry, sunny June ! 
We like you past all reason! 
You are the very finest month 
That comes at any season. 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 25 



SWINGIN' ON THE GATE 



I E heard the night-hawks squeakin' 
Chasin' "skeeters" in the sky; 

I We heard the tree toad cussin' 
Cause the leaves were limp and dry ; 
We felt the cool wind springin' up 
And we knew 'twas gettin' late, 
But we never minded hurryin' 
We was swingin' on the gate. 

This, gettin' up and dustin' 

Was what we didn't do ! 

We knew the sun was goin' down 

But there we sot, we two! 

A holdin' hands and talkin' soft 

Just me, and brown-eyed Kate, 

A foolin' and a huggin' some 

And swingin' on the gate. 

You c'n talk about your tov/erin' cars 

And spoonin' on the trains 

And makin' love with postal cards 

'Till y've softenin' of the brain 

But give me just an old board fence 

And spunky little Kate 

And we'll skunk the whole k'boodle of 'em 

Just a swingin' on the gate ! 



26 RIMES R Y BEN FIELD 



WHEN DANNY PLAYS 



w 



HEN Danny takes his fiddle down, 
And rubs his bow with rosum, 
Then tunes her up with steady hand, 
Strange feelin's shake my bosom. 

He settles in the easy chair, 
And keeps time with his boot, 
While from his flyin' finger ends, 
The quick notes seem to shoot. 

He plays the tunes they used to play 
Around at country dances, 
Which 'minds me of them jolly times. 
And soft eyes' mellow glances. 

He plays the church hymns' solemn notes, 

With bow and fiddle ringin,' 

You'd most imagine that you heard 

An angel choir a singin.' 

And then he plays the southern tunes 
That make you want to cry. 
Them soulful, lonesome ones, you know, 
That seem to never die. 

When with the lamp-light gleamin' 
Pale yellow on his face. 
He plays the ones he makes himself. 
Transfigured is the place. 

Our poor old kitchen seems to be 
A castle chamber, fair. 
Where strange and heavy perfumes 
Are floatin' on the air. 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 27 



And kings and courtiers, handsome, 
Come proudly marchin' in, 
And armoured knights with vassals gay 
Make merry martial din. 

In purple robes and crowns of gold 
Come queens of ancient lore, 
To press their jewelled slippers 
Upon the cushioned floor. 

And all outside you hear the tramp 
Of armies rumblin' past, 
And pine trees moanin' in the wind, 
And bugles blown, full blast. 

And then I seem to float away. 
To where the orchards bloom, 
And birds are singin' everywhere, 
Just like they do in June. 

Then twilight settles damp and still 
And frogs commence to croon, 
While stray stars twinkle overhead, 
Around the fadin' moon. 

Then soft as footsteps on the grass 
The last notes flutter low, 
How still as death the old house seems, 
When Danny stops his bow. 



Smile not unheedingly, 
'Tis better not to smile at all 
Than jest with arrows 
Shot from bows of mirth 
But venomed at the tips. 



28 RIMES B V BEAT FIELD 

THE MAY FLOWER 
(HEPATICA) 



U 



PON the shaded mossy mound, 
She holds aloft her star — 
A sifpjnal e^reetino; to be seen 
By childhood's eyes, afar. 

Her tinted petals, delicate. 

Around the silken sheath 

Light up the somber woodland scene 

And laugh at frost beneath. 

Sweet flower of the spring's first days, 
Before the bees are roaming, 
You wake to hear the blue bird call, 
Or welcome Robin homing. 

Your perfum.e, on the forest breeze 
In memory shall bind you ; 
And ages hence, the laughing child 
Shall search the shade and find you. 



MISTER SV/ALLOW'S TROUBLES 



Ml ISTER Swallow's all dressed up 
As fine as any dude, 
I But he never wears a napkin 
To protect him from his food ! 
Because, he catches bugs and moths 
Way up there in the sky ; 
He might complain about it too. 
His food comes very high! 



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Photo by J M. Farr 

"BENEATH THE SHADE OF WILKES' GROVE 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 29 



WILKES' GROVE 



PLEASURE rare it is to rove 
Beneath the shade of Wilkes' Grove 
To hear the pine trees moan and sigh 
And see the waves go dancing by, 

While through the tree trunks scattered ranks 
One glimpses distant Mossy Banks, 
Old Mossy Banks a frowning down 
Upon the valley and the town 

As though she felt a calm despair 
To see the village nesting there 
Where once the forest trees grew tall 
And covered hill and vale and all. 

Above them, through the years untold 
She held her mountain pinnace bold 
But now she seems to miss the shade 
That fell before the woodman's blade. 

A pleasure rare it is to rove 
Beneath the shade of Wilkes' Grove, 
To hear the pine trees moan and sigh 
As sparkling waves go dancing by. 



30 RIMES B V BEN FIELD 



1 REMEMBER, CONSIDERABLE 



I 



REMEMBER, I remember. 
The flat where I was born 
The window where the red-hot sun 



Came sizzling in at morn! 
It always came a lot too soon 
And roasted us all day, 
I often wished the vtxy heat 
Had borne my breath away. 

I remember, I remember. 

The office buildings high 

I used to think their very roofs 

Were flat against the sky, 

'Twas only boyish fancy 

But now it is with joy 

I see they build them twice as tall 

As when I was a boy. 

I remember, I remember, 

The bathing pool of brick 

Its waters came from iron pipes 

And never saw a "Crick" 

'Twas filed ail day with squirming kids, 

Of every race we had. 

The sun shone squarely on the tub 

And boiled us all like shad. 

I remember, I remember, 

A girl I used to know. 

Her legs were slim as grandpa's cane 

And bent out like a bow. 

She never missed a test at school. 

Her intellect was big; 

She married Count VanHousen Schlott, 

They keep a cow, and pig! 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 31 

I remember, I remember, 

The cop that had our beat, 

He wore a helmet on his head 

And brogans on his feet; 

His hands were fat, and freckled too, 

His nose was always red, 

I thought he stayed around all night 

And never went to bed. 

I remember, I remember. 

The place we went to church, 

And how my Daddy used to duck 

And leave us in the lurch! 

The long jawed preacher roared an hour ; 

I yet can hear him spiel, 

And there we sat, all doubled up. 

On seats as hard as steel ! 

I remember, I remember. 
Yet why should I tell more? 
For I remember lots of stuff 
That might make someone sore. 
And I've forgotten lots of things 
That might have done me good; 
vSo I will pause right here and now 
And 'pologize to Hood. 



THE NAUGHTY MARCH WIND 



A 



WIND, that cuffs me left and right! 
You seem to try, with all your might 
To blow my hat from off my head! 



I think you might be nice, instead 
Of roaring, that way from the west. 
You should be taught to do your best 
To not annoy folks, on the street. 
By passing 'round each one you meet ! 



32 RIMES n V BEN FIELD 



MOSQUITOES 



Y'jOU little pest 
With poisoned chest 
J A humming 'round the room ; 
Next time you fly 
Before my eye 
You'll surely meet your doom. 

Your motor shrill 

Gives one a chill ; 

To slay you would delight me. 

I hate the tune 

You always croon: 

I'd rather have you bite me. 

You little snip ! 

The blood you sip 

Is really very shocking. 

To think you chose 

To poke your nose 

Right through that lady's stocking. 

What awful greed 

It takes to feed 

Upon her pretty ankle ; 

And make her itch 

Beneath the stitch 

With bunches, red and rankle. 

Ah! there you come, 

I hear you hum, 

You festering bloody sinner. 

No, there he goes 

Down towards her toes 

To get another dinner. 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 33 

POETRY 

Poetry, a jumble of words, formerly arranged with 
regard to their rhythmic value, but now not. 

(Old Style) 

A blue jay sat upon a bush 
And scowled at his reflection 
Cast in the waters underneath, 
And deep was his dejection. 
For in the water mirror bright 
He saw his true complexion. 
All white and blue with flaming hue 
In gaudy circumspection. 

(New Style) 

A blue jay 

Looks down, 

Sees himself in the water 

Against the 

Sky. 

Sadly ruminating 'gainst strands 

Of half forgotten thought 

That rummage through his gizzard, — • 

Oh, why! 

Then there is the blank verse. 

(Old Style) 

Ye, who have hoped 

To lay your breasts 

On some proud battle field 

Awake! Awake! Awake! 

And hear once more the 

Thunderous tread of horse. 

And rumbling of slow cannon 



34 RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 

On the march. 

Awake! ye laggard sons 

Of fathers, fearless in the long dead days: 

Of rr.others, brave and true ; 

Awake, ere yet the sound of strife shall fade 

And honor perish on the 

Hideous fields of peace! 

(New Style) 

To bleed with blister'd breast 

In battle or some 

Other place 

Away from home, at least 

When hoofs and wheel crush 

Bones. 

Awake! Sons! 

Get! 

Up! 

No peace ! Nothing else ! 



STAPLES 



B 



READ and butter, meat, potatoes, 
Little lettuce, or tomatoes. 
Cup of coffee, or some tea, 



That's the meal to cook for me. 

Don't go much on pie nor cake. 
Fancy salads I don't take, 
Fussy decorated dishes, 
Full of frogs or eggs of fishes 
Don't hit me. The stuff I eat 
Just's potatoes bread and meat. 

Bread and butter, meat, potatoes, 
Little lettuce, or tomatoes. 
Cup of coffee, or some tea. 
That's enough to cook for me. 



RIMES B V BEN FIELD 35 



OLD BILL TOWNLEY'S CHRISTMAS 







LD Bill Townley says to me one day 
"I've been thinkin' out a plan," says he, 
"Thinkin' out a plan to make a Christmas 
pay." 

"Every year since I was born," says he, 
"I've been givincr' heaps of things away 
Now I've got a scheme to make 'em give to me!" 

"Long about the m.iddle of December 
I go huntin' up the folks I hardly know 
Folks I scarcely can remember" 

"And hand 'em out a present with a smile, 
I say to them : This is from me ! 
And you could see 'em grin a mile !" 

Old Bill Townley says to me one day : 
"Now that's my plan I got!" says he 
"My plan to make a Christmas pay!" 

"For every one of them there," says he 
"They simply must remember! and so. 
They have to bring a lot of stuff to me !" 

"For every dollar that I put into this thing 

I draw a lot, a lot, more out!" says he. 

"And how I like to hear the church bells ring!" 

And to myself I thought : Bill scheme is hardly new! 

And then aloud to Bill I said: 

"I know a lot of other Injun givers too!" 



36 RIMES R V HEN EFELD 



DEACON JONES' PIG 



D 



EACON Jones' only pig 
Was fat, and round, and nice ; 
And every day, from two big pails, 



The Deacon fed him twice. 

The Deacon's wife, adored the pig 
And three times every day, 
She fed him too, her tender heart 
Could never say him nay ! 

The Deacon's daughter helped along 
In keeping piggy fat; 
She fed him rice and radishes, 
And apples, from her hat. 

The Deacon's son, a kindly lad, 
Adored the piggy too. 
And fed him slop, and milk and eggs 
And gave him gum to chew. 

The hired girl, with lavish hand, 
Doled out the piggy's share ; 
She loved to hear him smack his lips, 
His squeal, she could not bear. 

The hired man, at dinner time 
Gave piggy weeds, and corn ; 
And fed him wheat, at supper time 
And hot mash, in the morn. 

On one dark night, when all was still, 
With deafening roar and crash. 
The pig exploded, like a bomb. 
And blew his pen to smash ! 



s 



RIMES BY BEN FIELD 37 

OCTOBER 

O swift the months go speeding past, 
That you and I are quite aghast 
To waken from our mental nap 



And find October in our lap. 

The golden month of all the year 
The month of plenty and of cheer, 
When bins are full of fragrant grain 
And haymows bulge with inward strain. 

The gorgeous month of glorious skies 
An azure canopy for dyes 
Frost-tinted on the Autumn grove, 
That mystic land where fairies rove. 

The busy squirrels a clatter raise 

Fast hoarding nuts for winter days ; 

In flocks that scream with rancorous mouth 

The blackbird hies him to the South, 

In robes of yellow, red, and green. 
The hillsides back the flaming scene 
While somber-eyed and black and grim, 
A lone crow perches, on a limb. 

Although October strips the trees 
And chases home the honeybees, 
She shakes the dust from out our eyes 
And raises havoc with the flies. 

The cool wind springs from out the North 
The coal man's cart comes rushing forth, 
And in the cellar down below 
We hunt the spade we use for snow. 



38 RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 



RATTLING THE LADIES 



N days of old the knight went forth 
His frame in armour drest, 
An iron kettle on his head, 
A log-chain on his vest. 

His reeking steed was loaded down 
So it could scarcely prance 
For good Sir Knight bestrode him with 
A pair of iron pants. 

With copper gloves, and nickle spurs, 
And undershirt of brass, 
A man of metal, certainly, 
That nothing could surpass. 

And lovely ladies sought his eye 
Behind his iron crate, 
For every famous beauty knew 
He'd make a rattling mate. 

He took his pick of all the girls, — 
Those knights were lucky men,, — 
For every female dame divined 
That he had loads of tin. 

And times have not changed much, perhaps. 
Just look at Willie Jones 
Who speeds his fliver down the pike 
Through chunks of flying stones ! 

Pale Willie is an errant knight 
Who never saw a battle, 
Yet all the girlies sigh for him 
For he is full of rattle. 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 39 



As down the street our hero chugs, 
The air is full of oggles, 
And every lovely beauty's eye 
Is fixt on Willie's goggles. 

They dub him "Willie Butterfly" 
And each one holds a pin, 
For well they know that Willie's cart 
Is loaded down with tin. 

And so, if you would be a knight 
Don't bother with the battles, 
But get yourself a Lizzie car 
That packs a million rattles ! 



EARLY UPS 



n 



T break of day the rooster crowed, 
And birds commenced to sing; 
A siren whistle went, Toot! Toot! 



And bells began to ring 



ts' 



An engine puffed, upon the track ; 
Three dogs began to howl. 
"Caw! Caw!" ejaculated Mister Crow, 
And home, flew Mister Owl. 

The farmer boy pulled on his boots, 
And ran to feed the cow. 
But Mister Tom Squirrel breakfasted. 
On apples, from the bough! 



40 RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 



HOME AT LAST 



J 



OHN Rogers lived at Harlem Flats 
His wife lived out at Brighton, 
They never quarreled nor had a spat, 



No neighbors heard them fighton 



fc)' 



John Rogers drove a Flewless car, 
The Mrs. owned a Smick, 
She liked to ramble country lanes, 
He stuck to roads of brick. 

John Rogers fought John Barleycorn 
'Til he was red as rust ; 
The Madam's favorite rally call 
Was "Nation Wide or Bust!" 

John Rogers blew the shining scads, 
The lady stacked them neat; 
He finished in a bankrupt court, 
She bought a country seat. 

John Rogers lives where verdant hills 
The song bird's trills repeat, 
She lives there too, of course, you know, 
He's at her country seat. 



ROLLING STONES 



There are some men who always want 
To go to lands afar. 
They like the whole creation 
Excepting where they are! 



RIMES D Y BEN FIELD 41 



THE SPRING-TIME BLUES 



W"l HEN your head feels like an onion, 
When a hot and hectic bunion 
, I Makes you wish that life was really shorter 

yet; 
When your lame back needs a plaster 
And forbodings of disaster 
Makes the wrinkles on your forehead fill with sweat! 

When your appetite has failed you 
After some ill-luck has nailed you 
And the undertaker stops to ask your middle name ; 
When the cash that you've invested 
Into notes and bonds untested 
Hits the home stretch on one wheel and then goes 
lame! 

When each petty sting and trouble 

Seems to grow and then to double, 

While the Devil digs his spurs into your back ; 

When your neighbor fights and hates you 

And your minister berates you 

In his sermon on the virtues that you lack! 

When you cannot sleep for worry 
And the whole world seems a flurry 
Of demoniacal fiends from every source ; 
When, unwarned, your best friend fails you ; 
Let me tell you just what ails you — 
It's the Spring-time Blues, you've got, I'll bet a 
horse ! 



42 RIAfES B Y BEN FIELD 

If you tally the description 

Here's our Spring-time Blues prescription, 

And a dose or two will fill your soul with snap ; 

Grab a rod and line and hook, 

Seek a quiet shady nook. 

Go a fishin' while the trees are full of sap ! 

In your rubber boots and slicker, 

Never mind the flask of liquor. 

Chase along some little creek or lake or stream; 

And vour Spring-time Blues will go 

Melting off like banks of snow 

When the April sun upsets them with his beam. 



BEING INDEPENDENT 



I 



WOULD not go against the grain 
And follow off the crowd, 
And yet, I never wear my hat 



Where hats are not allowed. 

I would not let some other man 
Select my thoughts for me ; 
But still, I often hold my tongue 
When others don't agree. 

I would not ape the silly mob 
And copy every style, 
But one should never be a freak, 
It isn't worth the while. 

I like to feel that I am boss 
And paddle my canoe. 
Yet other people steer the craft 
And tell me what to do. 



RIMES B V BEN FIELD 43 



THE CITY CHILD 



O thrush song wakes him in the dewy morn 
To scent the meadows fragrance from afar 
He wakes amid a din of clanging gongs 
And loud voiced warnings of the rushing car. 

No brooklet trickles through its grassy bed 
O'er-hung with alders, swaying in the breeze, 
The gutter's trough his only substitute. 
While iron lamp-posts counterfeit the trees. 

For him there are no May flowers in the spring 
No black birch twigs to spicen up his breath. 
No hay mow spread, alluring 'neath the beam, 
Inviting him to take a "leap to death." 

No June bugs blunder through the evening dusk 
When fire-flies light the swamp-lands foggy haze, 
But glaring street bulbs change his dreary nights 
To semblance of artificial days. 

No pet lambs frisk around his barn 
No swallows build their nests beneath his eaves, 
No apple orchard lays for him its shade 
That hides the mystic fruit among its leaves. 

No crooked stick with line and bent-pin hook 
With wiggly worm beside the shady pool, 
No coasting on the hill in winter time 
No fighting on the rugged way to school. 

No whistles from the willow branches made. 
No pop-gun that the elder section yields, 
No bows, no arrows and no sling 
To hunt the dusky woodchuck of the fields. 



44 RIMES B V BEN FIELD 



Where dizzy structures edge the canons deep 

With windowed cliffs that mark the narrow way 
His foot-steps drag, as wasted childhood hours 
Check sadly off each slow and cheerless day. 

Among the shadows, withered is his soul 

No sunshine strikes his yearning childish heart, 

A man-built radiance is his only joy, 

Far stretched from Nature's flaming counterpart. 



JIGGER JIGGER JOHNSON 



J I IGGER Jigger Johnson, 
Togging, jogging, on! 
,^_J Where the crowd is thickest 
Sing your merry song! 

Jigger Jigger Johnson, 
Jogging, jogging on! 
I can hear you calling 
At the break of dawn! 

Jigger Jigger Johnson! 
Jogging, jogging, yet ! 
It's your merry voice I hear, 
When the sun has set! 

Jigger Jigger Johnson! 
Jogging, jogging through! 
When I grow to be a man, 
Will I be like you? 



RIMES B Y BEN E/ELD 45 



CHEWING YEAST 



T 



HEY'VE dug a new one from the heap 
Of old ones, worn and dusty, 
A panacea for your ills, 



It's yeast that smells so musty. 

If you have stomach troubles sore, 
Or colic like a beast, 
All pain will vanish, if you chew 
A cake of Barnum's yeast. 

If 3^ou have pimples on your nose. 
Or noises in your head, 
Just eat a cake of Barnum's yeast 
Before you go to bed. 

If boils appear upon your neck, 
Or corns upon your feet. 
Or rheumatism in your joints, 
A yeast cake can't be beat. 

Alas ! Alack ! and woe is me ! 

Our troubles haven't ceased ; 

They take our home-made brew away 

And stuff us full of yeast! 

Avast ! Avaunt ! and hoist the jib ! 
To Cuba let us sail 

And never hear from yeast cake fiends 
Unless it be by mail! 

Belay! Belay! and Ship Ahoy! 
Let's duck this one, at least, 
And flee the land whose only grog 
Is Barnum's compressed yeast ! 



46 RIMES B Y BEN EIELD 



THE MAN IN THE WHITE CRAVAT 



f^rnERE'S to the man in the white cravat, 
j PI j And a long black coat, and a derby hat ; 
yL^lJ To the stand-up collar, that rubs his chin, 
To his fancy vest and his horse-shoe pin ! 

To the soft-toed shoes, that fit his feet, 
To his yellow gloves, all smooth and neat; 
To the cane, that he swings with a jaunty air, 
To his gray mustache, and his whitened hair! 

I could tell you a tale of the long ago. 
But the story is long, if you must know. 
But you'd stop and stare as you saw him pass, 
For you'd see a knight through a mystic glass ! 

And forgotten scenes of forgotten days, 
Would fill your mind, as you met his gaze. 
And you'd honor the trim old man so neat. 
Who swings his cane as he walks the street. 

So, here's to the man in the white cravat. 
To his long black coat, and his derby hat; 
To the stand-up collar, that rubs his chin. 
To his fancy vest and his horse-shoe pin ! 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 47 



THEY CAN'T HAVE MARK TWAIN 



(News item : "Mark Twain was elected by the Uni- 
versities Board, to a niche in the Hall of Fame 
under his real name, Samuel L. Clemens.") 

mHEY have voted you a place, Mark, 
Within the Hall of Fame ; 
Inside a marble-coated niche, 
Above your other name. 

They have put you in the Hall, Mark, 
Among the "gents" and "dames," 
Who figured in the high-brow world. 
We scarcely know their names. 

Among the stately, solemn few 
They found for you a place. 
With marble wreath upon your brow. 
Above your marble face. 

Your smile is locked in stone, Mark, 
And serious your eye. 
It must have been your other self 
That made us laugh and cry. 

We let them have that "other self" 
We never shall complain 
The "Really You" is ours for keeps, 
The common herds "Mark Twain." 



48 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 



THE AVIATOR 



H 



ERE'S to the man who flies the air, 
Among the clouds he hies, 
In dips and whirls 

He spins and twirls, 

Upward, away he flies ! 

He has the speed of the eagle bold 

That rests on the mountain crests, 

Round figure eights 

He carries weights, 

And his motor never rests. 

Oh, a life on the bounding winds for me, 

Among the thunder-heads, 

Above the knobs. 

Away from snobs, 

In their silken trundle beds! 



We are going to leave them all behind 

In their lazy palace cars. 

While they snooze and yawn. 

By another dawn 

We'll be circling 'round Old Mars! 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 49 



THE PRAIRIE 



m 



N even cycle, straight and fine, 
A rim, the sky seems resting on ; 
True, full, complete, that circling line, 



The level prairie's horizon. 

Unbroken distance to the sky. 
Cloud shadows floating on the grass; 
No hill to rest the weary eye 
Beneath the noon-day's sun of brass. 

Strange birds that flutter, sing and fall 
To nests half hidden in the weeds ; 
And where the water-courses call. 
The black-bird sways upon the reeds. 

In honking squadrons, uniform, 
The wild geese challenge overhead, 
Forboding of the coming storm, 
Against the eastern dawning, red. 



50 



RIMES B Y BEN FIELD 



THE CIGARETTE 



A 



LITTLE paper rolled around 
A thimble full of smoke ; 
A mile or two of stinky smell, 



Like "fetty" mixed with coke! 

A pasteboard box, all covered up, 
With "photographs from life" 
Of Pharaoh's Queen of Egypt, 
Who smoked them all her life. 

The billboards glare with color 
In cigarettish lore. 
They tell the passing stranger 
Which brand had won the war. 



What fool is he who smokes one, 
This rancid, whale-oil snipe. 
When he might be contented 
And puff a black-staled pipe ! 



RIMES B V BEN FIELD 51 



THE PEANUT NUT 



0""^ H ! A wonderful nut is the peanut nut, 
Who grows in the sunny south ! 
J He is born underground 
Near Chesapeake Sound. 
And his grave is the small boy's mouth ! 

Then, Hurrah, and Hail! The peanut frail, 

Who always comes in a sack! 

He is dressed like a flirt, 

In a paper shirt, 

With a seam straight up his back! 

Oh ! a wonderful nut, is the peanut nut. 

That everyone likes so well! 

His praises mutter 

With peanut butter. 

Loud crack his noisy shell! 

Then Hail the meat, of the small boy's treat! 

Hail the oil, from his liver pressed. 

Hail the taste and smell 

That we know so well! 

Hail this nut in paper dressed ! 



S2 RIMES B V BEN FIELD 



MEMORIAL DAY 



MnAJESTIC men! 
Your coats of blue 
I Shall never fade ! 
No other hue 
Can half compare ; 
No other dye 
So rich and rare ! 
Virginia's swamps 
Beheld that shade; 
On Vicksburg's heights 
That color stayed ! 
Antietam's breath 
In hideous mass, 
Too thickly strewed 
The reddened grass. 
At Gettysburg 
That color grew 
A maddened whirl 
Of valor true ! 
The banner that 
You foug^ht to save 
Will proudlv float 
O'er land and wave, 
While emnires fall 
And kingdoms fade, 
America, all undismayed. 
Shall firmly stand. 
Her courage true, 
A heritage. 
From boys in blue. 



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